There was a scene from last week's Glee
season finale, where Will enters the room where the New Directions kids are, carrying seven boxes of pizza. "Real New York pizza," he claims, still driving home the fact that we are in New York, and not in Lima, Ohio (or, technically, a sound stage in Los Angeles).
That's Jeany, my currently-on-hiatus friend from New York. She lives in an apartment in Times Square, which means she's seen (or at least was capable of seeing) the Glee
cast shoot their admittedly patronizing musical number in the city.
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I had this marvelous idea for a photo essay back in college: the life of a Luneta photographer. They still do it the old way: with film SLRs around their necks, they'd ply their wares around the park, hoping that a visitor would want to have their time in the park documented for posterity. But with digital cameras (and the instant photography experts that come with it) becoming more ubiquitous, their way of life is pretty much facing a dead end.
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I just finished watching the last two episodes of the second series of Being Human
. The idea of Annie, George and Mitchell being torn apart by so many things gets me riled up.
I have mood swings, and I tend to get too emotional. I watch certain films and, in several occasions, I end up crying, and screaming at the screen, yelling invectives at whatever's happening. "Putang ina! Dapat yang mangyari sa'yo, punyetang gago ka!
" I do this with the news too, more often. I get too emotional. My parents hate me for that. I can only yell at the screen and not at their face, they'd say. More or less they hate it when I shout. You're not allowed to get angry.
You're not allowed to get angry, because it tears people apart, and God knows what the consequences are. God knows why I decided I hated my last "best friend", why I decided to unfollow her on Twitter
despite a bad Internet connection, which meant the cut wasn't as clean as it should. But I was angry. And I hated her. I hated her for not being there anymore. But I did not want to lose her. I couldn't afford to lose her. There are only a few people on my side now. Why can't I just fucking swallow my pride?
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The last time I declared a blogging hiatus was a good six years ago. Despite the fact that I can't find that particular blog entry, I'm pretty certain that it happened. It was midterms, and I was blogging about it at the Cybernook, back when it wasn't a coffee shop yet. I told myself I needed the time to study. Looking back, it's a ridiculous idea, since I blogged a day later.
It's been more than two weeks since I last blogged. At this point it shouldn't be something to worry about. Does anybody still blog, even? We're busy. We'd rather tweet. Nobody reads this thing anymore. And yet I remember what Sars pointed out two years ago: I write both for a living and for recreation. This thing's continued existence is because it has to be here. But this blog has been idle for extended periods lately. Five entries per month, maximum, separated by weeks, and in rare spurts of inspiration, days.
That's the downside of being stuck at home. You get insecure. You read about your friends going out with their friends. You want to talk to your friends but you run out of topics, or the reasons to even call each other friends. You find yourself with nothing to do during the weekends. Your life revolves around the same four walls. Nothing strikes you as unusual anymore. There are no stories left to tell. Thus, this.
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